


Numbers (Coda 3x11)

by laceandgrace (thingsarequeer)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsarequeer/pseuds/laceandgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s still fucking counting in numbers. Day one of the rest of Dean’s life and it’s still a string of days, hours, weeks, minutes, seconds. It’s a reversal, but the numbers don’t go away. This time they slowly run by – run <i>out</i>. </p>
<p>He’s so fucking tired of numbers. Wants to implement his pointless brain powers to do something useful, like creating a still life of the picture that Dean makes curled up along the edge of his bed. Sam just wants to freeze the light and shadows that streak and blend in the wrinkled sheets. Aches to never move, never breathe again, if this is the way that he can keep things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbers (Coda 3x11)

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for 3x11.

He’s still fucking counting in numbers. Day one of the rest of Dean’s life and it’s still a string of days, hours, weeks, minutes, seconds. It’s a reversal, but the numbers don’t go away. This time they slowly run by – run _out_. 

He’s so fucking tired of numbers. Wants to implement his pointless brain powers to do something useful, like creating a still life of the picture that Dean makes curled up along the edge of his bed. Sam just wants to freeze the light and shadows that streak and blend in the wrinkled sheets. Aches to never move, never breathe again, if this is the way that he can keep things. 

_Five…four…three…_

No, no, no. Oh god, no. 

_Sam?_

He jerks awake to a touch, breath harsh and dry in the back of his throat. Dean’s calloused fingertips catch on his skin and tear in their own figurative way. All’s quiet in the dawn’s mild light that leaks in the window. No radio music. No gunshots. No hell hounds. Not today, not today. 

_Sam?_

He smells coffee. The scent hangs in the air, taunting him with its smoky perfection. He feels like he can reach out and trace its intricate curlicues. Swirl his fingers through the wisps that he inhales, exhales. Not enough. Inhale, inhale, _inhale_. Searches for that smell of metallic blood and stench of death. He still feels it clogging up his pores, singing in his veins. 

Life. He’s greedy for it. 

_Sam? Made some coffee. You want some coffee?_

No. Fuck no. _God_ no. 

He bares his teeth. _I’ll tell you what I want. No. I’ll_ show _you what I want._

Dean makes a sound. Something harsh and strained in the back of his throat when Sam pulls him in and clashes their mouths together. It’s not gentle. Their teeth grate and he tastes copper, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough. And he drags Dean onto the bed with him, hauls him in by the collar of the t-shirt he wears to sleep in. It smells like detergent and sweat when he noses it to the side and bites at Dean’s collarbone. 

_Sam –_

_No_ , he grinds out, desperately spreading Dean flat with his hands. Mapping out curves and dips and arching muscles. Silences the soft, puzzled noises Dean makes with his mouth and finds his place. The place he’s been missing for so many days, so many months. Knees digging into the mattress on either side of Dean’s hips, nose and breath nuzzling underneath his brother’s jaw. 

_Mine, mine, mine_. Sam captures Dean’s wrists as they wander. Presses them into the mattress with force and then kisses soft, sweet apology across Dean’s face. His eyelids, his nose, his chin, his lips. Tastes coffee already made and swallowed. _Mine, mine, mine._

Dean melts underneath him, like liquid underneath his hands and it’s _so perfect_. Sam’s got to feel it all without inhibitions. Needs this without barriers between them. His brother’s shirt rips under his pull before he even realizes what he’s done. It’s the sound accompanied by Dean’s oaths that wrenches him from the desert of his mind and he snarls. Dips his head and _takes_ this with bites to skin and tongue tracing freckles that lead to nowhere and everywhere. 

Dean swears and curses. Has his fingers gripping the pillow until his knuckles have turned white when Sam pauses long enough to look up. _Months without you_ , he breathes, throat lumping and fingers tracing the path of his lips and below. Snags the crook of one finger in Dean’s boxers and pulls down. _Months without this._

_G-gross morning breath_ , Dean counters raggedly, body molding and moving to where Sam’s hand smoothes its path. The statement is free of the sharpness that sarcasm demands. Sam hears the concern that flows beneath the thickness of arousal and early morning shock. Curls his fingers around Dean’s cock and forcibly erases concern. 

He dips his head and tastes the very tip with the smallest of licks. Squeezes his eyes shut. _You taste good, Dean. God, I missed your taste. Every flavor._

Dean whimpers and thrusts his hips. Muscles shift and move underneath freckled skin and Sam’s eyes are starved at the sight. It’s like majesty and glory. Hallelujah and amen. Gravity wants to take him down, spiraling into Dean and whatever else waits for him at the end of the numbers in his head. But it’s glorious, gazing down from heaven. It’s all beauty and none of the pain and Sam wants _this_ forever. 

_S-Sam._

Like a prayer. Whispered and fervent and only ever his. He knows what it means. He’s intimate with the ache. Months and months of silent, empty motel rooms and cold sheets and no toothpaste or mouthwash to share in the morning. No soft kisses or bruising grips. Nothing to keep him human. 

He surges up. Eats at Dean’s mouth and throat, enclosing both of their cocks in a determined grip and stroking until both of their hips are stuttering in rhythm. Dean’s breath heats his lips, shakily heaving out on broken moans and puffs of warm air with each jerk. Sam feels it grow like a beast inside him, pricking at his skin and roaring to rip him apart. 

_Not this time. Not this time._

_Hngh_. Dean’s release. Head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Whole body gone rigid. Fingers digging into shoulders. Mouth parted underneath Sam’s teeth, and for a moment – 

Everything. Frozen. 

_Five…_

Liquid heat. 

_Four…_

Coffee. Sweat. Soap. _Them._

_Three…_

Eyelashes smudging against dusted freckles. 

_Two…_

Silence. Peace. For once, all is as it should be. 

_One…_

Time’s up.


End file.
